


The True Lives Of Mr And Mrs Aumont

by TalesOfBelle



Series: ID: Widowmaker [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Backstory, Coffee, Developing Friendships, F/M, Gen, Headcanon, Male-Female Friendship, Pre-Talon Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Promises, Team Talon (Overwatch), also guest starring: Moira, guest starring: Sombra, in one chapter Gabriel Reyes wears a pink Hawaiian shirt, the formation of disaster team rocket, travel montages, widowmaker and reyes hit a hotel bar and it goes about as well as you can expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalesOfBelle/pseuds/TalesOfBelle
Summary: An unlikely bond has the Reaper and the Widowmaker working together under a joint alias.





	1. The Balcony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely bond has the Reaper and the Widowmaker working together under a joint alias, but before the closet, the explosions, the gunfire, the hangar and jet, and that second first encounter,
> 
> years before - in fact,
> 
> there is The Balcony.
> 
> There is Gabriel Reyes and Amélie Lacroix.

Amélie Lacroix is easy to find.

It's evening and her home is full of suits and dresses filled by polite smiles, sensible chuckles, and money. Gérard had waded mouth first into the hubbub of guests and conversation, he did like to mingle and she did not at all begrudge him for his little functions. She was by his side long enough to play her part, and truthfully she enjoyed herself. Dressed in her finest, besides the man she loves - also dressed in his finest, laughing at his jokes because he's actually funny,

then laughing at the jokes of her guests because, well, at least they're trying.

But Gérard knows Amélie. She finishes the tall skinny glass she'd been delicately holding and he relinquishes his grip so she can retreat to the balcony. Before parting, they share a kiss. He whispers something dirty in her ear and she sucks on her teeth trying not to cackle in front of all their guests.

Gabriel Reyes cuts a good look in a sharp suit.

All shoulders and charm - yes, he was capable of charm, even with a voice like gravel and those eyebrows that genuinely struggled to unfurrow. Gérard had invited him. Then Jack had told him he should go. Ana too, she was here somewhere in the crowd. Not his concern, the good lady Lacroix was his concern.

There she goes, retreating to the balcony.

There he goes, joining her. The backless dress was a bold choice, he wonders how she manages to make the slip of fabric look modest, and how she manages to still look so mature with that tattoo up her sleeve. In this day and age, smoking shouldn't make anyone look cooler,

but there she is. Little orange light just inches away from her lips. A plume of smoke trying to reach the few clouds covering the late-evening sky.

"Lacroix," A single-word greeting before entering her periphery. Elbows on the stone balustrade.

"Reyes," He's greeted in kind. She sounds unamused. Yeah, she didn't like him much.

"Lovely spread you've put out," He can do small-talk, testing the waters,

"I'll thank the caterers."

Reyes shrugs. He straightens himself up - taller than her, though he's not trying to impose so there's a step back as he reaches into his blazer pocket, pulls out a little box and from that box, a cigarette.

"Need a light?" Amélie asks. It might've been downright friendly if she didn't sound like she was planning how to best shove him into the water below.

"Sure," He acquiesces and she lights him up.

He takes a drag before speaking next, "Been meaning to talk to you,"

"I know. I saw you stalking me throughout my home."

Gérard probably saw him too. Not a damn blind-spot between these two. They'd be a force to reckon with if Gérard ever convinces her to join the field, but she seems quite comfortable enjoying doing anything else. No, scratch that, everything else. Ballet, gymnastics, athletics, an entire handful of winter sports. Reyes had been on security detail once or twice, only when Gérard had royally pissed the wrong sort of man off. Amélie had hated it. Reyes realizes he hasn't said anything for a good few seconds, "Yeah."

"So?"

"The wife of Gérard," His mouth moves like he's chewing on the smoke, then he shrugs, "You're an important woman," Tap-tap, embered ash tumbles down the side of the balcony, "Wanted to extend my appreciation."

Amélie scoffs, she looks away and then back to him but only with a sidelong glance, "Well then. I certainly feel appreciated," Mocking.

"... Yeah," Reyes gets it. He was the man - or among the men and women - who for all Amélie Lacroix cares, put her husband in danger. She might just prefer he settle down with an office job. Maybe in 10 or 15, he might, "You don't have to like me. Thought I'd open a line, that's all. Should you need to talk when Gérard is..."

"Busy," Amélie finishes,

"Busy," and Reyes confirms.

"It's appreciated, Reyes."

Reyes hunches his shoulders, it's no big deal.

"And it's a good excuse," Added off-hand, but the tone is oh-so-knowing.

It's Reyes' turn to glance her way, one brow twitching before furrowing again.

"You don't like parties either."

"Ha," He laughs without laughing, "Yeah. I prefer the balconies."

Amélie raises her cigarette like she might a champagne flute, they both take a long drag together.

She'd given him a hard enough time, it was difficult to keep it up through all that growling sincerity. _She might actually admit to liking the man._


	2. The Second First Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely bond has the Reaper and the Widowmaker working together under a joint alias, but before the closet, the explosions, the gunfire, the hangar and jet,
> 
> there is the Second First Encounter.
> 
> There is the Reaper, the Widowmaker, and the doctor standing between them.

A man is supposed to die when he goes up in flames with the world around him.

Reyes supposed he'd keep going while the nanites could still rebuild the flesh around his skull. Things happen. People change. Men bend and break - or if they're lucky they get to choose between the two. Reyes chose the Reaper, he chose Talon, he saw the hand dealt and figured if he was going to be the bad guy he might as well lean into it. He could be miserable like that.

There's this problem Talon has. The left hand isn't just blind to the right hand, sometimes they're at odds. It's an organization pulled together by motive, not necessarily intent. He had a list and they were helping him work through it, so when news trickled through of Doctor O'deorains latest project, and Reyes had bothered enough to lift his head and sift through some old reports,

curiousity's sake, really,

the discovery surprised him.

He had to wonder how long this little science project was going to be kept from him. Reyes knew who to ask.

"Ah, Gabriel, how can I help you?" Doctor Moira O'deorain seemed far more interested in her electronic clipboard-sized datapad than the ghast of a man that had breezed into her medical bay. Tidy, well organized, a bed and a chair that look more like torture implements, a large completely blackened window on one wall beside a door.

"Where is she," Reyes growls. His footsteps are silent but he's already in Moira's space, looking up at her.

"My assistant? Lunchbreak, I imagine. I offered her a meal replacement, but,-"

"Doctor." A command. Reyes rises, smoke billows around him and pools at his feet, he restructures - he gets taller, now glaring down at Moira,

and she looks up. Unimpressed, "Wonderful. You know how to construct high-heels from the nanites I gave you. Very impressive."

"Amélie Lacroix."

"She's here. In a fashion," Moira raises one hand - there's a small white remote, she clicks a button and the blackened window turns transparent. There's a table and chair, a cot, and one shelf - nothing but a change of medical gowns on it. It's a cell. Sitting in the chair is a woman.

Smoke passes over Moira, through her hair, under her arms, Reyes isn't imposing down on her anymore, he's behind her watching the woman in the chair through the window.

Moira considers this all quite rude, but par for the course, she turns to continue facing Reyes, "You two had a personal connection, yes? The secrecy was not my choice though in a fashion I did agree with it."

She's talking to the back of his head.

"I wouldn't advise getting any closer than that," Moira continues, "She's still very much a work in progress."

Reyes starts for the door. Moira watches him, disappointed but resigned,

"No. Don't. Our work. The delicate balance," She rolls her eyes, returns her attention back to the datapad, "Well I tried to stop him," She mutters.

* * *

The very least a woman could do would be to remember shooting her husband. It seems only polite.

The woman in question, formerly Amélie Lacroix and now someone else entirely, only remembers it through a haze. White pillow, red blood, a signal sent, a choice made. Yes, that's it, she had asked to forget. She was taken, told what to do, given a choice, and she had chosen. Then she was put on ice, figuratively. Deep training, gene therapy, passed between omnic hands and the hands of Doctor O'deorain. In many ways, she had become a pet-project.

It was all science-teams and psychotherapy for a long, long while. None of it made for good conversation.

The door to her cell opens and filling the frame is a man wearing a trench-coat and smoke.

"Been a while," It's voices layered on voices, a buzz in the back of his throat, "Lacroix."

The woman winces, her head inclined, hand clutching at the back of her neck, "Non."

The smoke shifts, the coat moves with it, and now Reyes is standing directly opposite the woman, "I'm good with faces. Names."

"She's not my name anymore, j'ai tué la femme, elle a tué l'homme," The french is muttered, but it all has a distant sort of confidence to it. Disaffected. Reyes had seen it before. Sometimes it stared back at him in the mirror.

"What's your new name, Amés?" He tilts his head, curious, bird-like.

"Widowmaker." She's staring at him as she answers. His face is older, scruffier, more scars - and they keep shifting, too slow for anyone to really pick up on. But it's still him. The man on the balcony who made her laugh. Where was it?

Reyes turns his head to the mirror set in the wall - the one he was looking through moments ago, the one he knows Doctor O'deorain is watching through, predicting exactly where she might be standing.

There's a click, a radio-crackle, and then the doctor's voice, "Don't give me that look. She needed a code-name."

"Privacy. Moira."

"I should think, Reaper," The use of his codename is rather pointed, spoken with emphasis, "This is one of those cases where leaving you alone in a room with someone does not benefit me."

Reyes' shoulders drop, he looks back to Widowmaker and as he sighs a plume of smoke snakes up his face.

"Why are you here?" Widowmaker asks. He had been using English so she defaults to it - Her accent used to be thicker, but there was something about her voice now. Cold.

He has a second to decide on his answer, some things were missing here, familiar and unfamiliar, he had to wonder exactly what was done to Amélie Lacroix, "I'm poaching you. You're ready for fieldwork."

There's a sound, Moira's throat-clearing pointedly over the speakers.

Reaper turns his head again towards that mirror, "Make her ready,"

And then he's billowing back out the way he came.


	3. The Cafeteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely bond has the Reaper and the Widowmaker working together under a joint alias, but before the closet, the explosions, the gunfire, and the hangar and jet,
> 
> there is The Cafeteria.
> 
> There is the Reaper, the Widowmaker, and the just-about-passable cuisine.

The Widowmaker. The name was a cruel kind of irony in Reyes' opinion, but she didn't respond to much else. 

He had called out 'Amélie' while watching over her training and the twinge in her spine was visible from across the hall. He wasn't about to do that again. Doctor O'Deorain had expressed her concerns, of course. Widowmaker needed more time, not just training or gene therapy, "Too unpredictable?" Reyes had asked,

"No, predictable to a fault. For fieldwork, at least. Uncontrolled fieldwork," Her voice isn't distracted but she always tends to answer from a face buried in a datapad. Uncomfortable with eye-contact, unless she was trying to make a point.

"So she needs a handler."

Moira had drawn in a breath, held it, eyes closed, she knew what Reyes was suggesting.

"Think of it like gathering data, Doc," Reyes reasoned, "Finally got me playing along again."

* * *

Widowmaker had a schedule and then it was changed.

New schedule; Check-ups with Doctor O'Deorain, training - close-quarters combat, endurance, and then the shooting range, eating - she had graduated to using the cafeteria like the rest of the agents. Her doctor had called it integration.

Occasionally there's the room with the table and chair and the omnic whose voice was a throb in the back of her head. Pay that no mind, he's just making adjustments.

Talon, regardless of motivations, is a bad place for bad people. Most everyone on the base is comfortable with hurting someone. Widowmaker is hardly any different, she sits in the cafeteria flanked by a pair of agents and imagines what it might sound like to break their fingers. She feels a strange unmotivation to act on this - part of the psychotherapy, though she can't quite grasp that reasoning. These two agents have caught on, maybe they'd overheard that phrasing used a while ago 'Predictable to a fault.'

"Don't eat," The one on her right says suddenly, "Not allowed to eat that."

They both watch as Widowmaker freezes, fork in hand hovering near her mouth but going no further. No eating. They snicker.

"Told you," The one on the left says, "They rushed her out of the lab, she'll do anything you say."

"Bet the Doctor enjoys that."

They both snicker again, Widowmaker's finger twitches. She puts down her food, stares at the tray. It might make sense that she feels like a prisoner, in her current condition she looks like one.

"Don't move," Left says. Today's scheduled meal was sausage, mash, gravy. Ostensibly not a bad meal, but preserved frozen and then reheated and unceremoniously spooned onto the tray. Now the gravy was being drawn as a line down Widowmaker's nose. Bad place for bad people, not all of them mature.

Widowmaker doesn't move, despite how angry her imagination becomes. She knows how to kill these men, on a technical level. In reality, the thought that motivates movement in her body is halted. Risk prevention, of course, Talon couldn't have their latest project lashing out.

"Okay, now stand up-"

"Sit down." A shadow is cast. It's sudden and dark and fluid, the voice is growled but not in any way slurred, a clear command for both Widowmaker and the two agents. It's Reaper, of course, the voice could belong to no-one else, the reverb of a thousand nanites twitching in his throat, "Widowmaker?"

"Yes, Commander."

"Take his hand."

Widowmaker takes the hand of the man on her left. She looks right at him as he starts to protest - but the protests are silenced by the shadow looming over her shoulder descending to eye-level.

"Break his fingers."

Chatter about the cafeteria is silenced by the crunch and the scream but when heads turn to look at the commotion and see the shadow standing behind Widowmaker they quickly start minding their own business again. Widowmaker releases the broken hand and watches as he writhes in pain, still seated, incoherently mumbling curses and muffled cries of pain.

"You should go see the doctor about that," Reyes informs him, his grin - all teeth - looks more like a widened grimace, "And you," His head turns to the other agent - one who was currently trying to slink away, "I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning. Training hall."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Both agents are in a hurry to leave. Reyes watches them go and not until they've left the room does he sit down besides Widowmaker. He offers a napkin and she cleans her face.

"Merci," She mutters.

"Consider it future permission," Reyes answers - his tone of voice is dismissive, not accepting the gratitude. Not like he did it for her, agents needed to know the line and know not to cross it. He slaps a folder down on the table in front of Widowmaker, then idly leafs it open with one hand. A location. A headshot. A mission statement, "You're with me on this one."

Widowmaker slides her tray to one side to pull the folder closer. She quickly scans through the documents - notably reading the nature of the target and security surrounding them. She's confident the Reaper could do this on his own.

"Guy's a flight risk," Reyes tells her as she reads - in fact, just as she reads the part in black and white where it says 'flight risk', "I'll need covering fire and any escape routes locked down. Can you handle it?"

"Oui. Of course, Sir."

"Nhr," Reyes grumbles some nonsense sound, hand waving away the honorific.

Widowmaker doesn't respond and he's just sat there next to her, watching her read without really paying much mind to the fact that he's staring. He's not sure what he's expecting from her. Conversation? Amélie Lacroix had been a tough nut to crack and he's not going to start taking credit for the fact that she had once warmed to him. His lip curls at the thought, a snarl that Widowmaker no doubt notices but leaves uncommented on. Did she know how she had complicated things for Reyes? Not likely, and he'd broken plenty of promises before.

He could just stand up and go and consider it one more.

_"God-damnit, Gabriel, you find her. I don't care how dirty it gets, but you find her," Gérard Lacroix. Years ago._

"I believe it is that I 'owe you one'," Widowmaker. Right now. Only a hint of Amélie Lacroix somewhere inside.

Reyes was already standing to go, taking the folder with him, "Yeah, well. Next time you see Doctor O'Deorain? Knock her mug off the desk for me. That's an order."

Widowmaker internalizes the command - he hadn't responded well to being called 'sir' earlier, so she says nothing, this seems to annoy Reyes,

"And eat your damn food," he growls - pushing off from the table. He leaves. She eats.

The following afternoon, Doctor O'Deorain's mug is smashed against the floor.


	4. The Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely bond has the Reaper and the Widowmaker working together under a joint alias, but before the closet, the explosions, the gunfire, and the hangar and jet,
> 
> there is the drive,
> 
> there is the Reaper telling Widowmaker the play, a fresh passport in her lap.

"Take the shot," The growl came layered with static, fed directly into her ear from the piece she was wearing,

There's silence from Widowmaker's end. She doesn't have a line of sight. Not until the heat signature she was tracking had piled into a jeep and used it to crash open the garage doors. She fires - the round cracks the bulletproof windscreen.

"He's moving. We're moving," From growling to snarling, there are cracks of gunfire from Reaper's end of the line. Widowmaker can see his signature moving through the office space above the garage. She can hear the echo of the shots not just in her earpiece, but rolling over the small americana town. The dustbowl had never seen so much action, "So move!"

"Non, I have this," Widowmaker remains poised, tracking her target through her scope. Another shot, the crack across the windscreen is tested, the jeep is getting closer and closer to her position perched up on the water tower - Three points of interest were established the night before. The Mark's office, the Hangar, and the Watertower that stood on the edge of town between these two points.

"Widowmaker,"

"Non."

Another shot, the windscreen is stressed with white marks streaking in jagged lines - the jeep swerves, but just barely stays on the road as it roars past the water tower. Something is tossed from the window, something that explodes.

* * *

"Got everything?" Spoken like some kind of mild grunt. It's strange to see the Reaper in a hoodie, his things packed like an unsuspicious overnight bag and hoisted over his shoulder. He looks uncomfortably casual.

"Oui," But then so does she. Years ago, a wide-brimmed summer hat might have suited her better, along with a cardigan, maybe something around the collar. Her innocent little carry-case is stuffed into the trunk of a car that just barely has enough trunk space to fit it.

Reaper's things will just have to go between his legs.

They both climb into the back of the sleek, black sporty number. A car that could no doubt punch speeds far faster than it actually went to take them to the airport. The thing with these kinds of vehicles was the lack of space, close enough to the Reaper to smell his cologne. It did a good enough job at covering the stench of death that often clung to him like a bad mood. She's also close enough to spot the label on his hoodie - it's not casual at all, she wonders how much it must have dented whatever it is that Talon was paying him.

A passport is dropped into her lap,

"Mrs Aumont," Reaper tells her.

Widowmaker opens the passport to the page with her new name, a new identity. It's troubling, she doesn't remember having this picture taken - and it's unflattering, "And you?" She asks.

"Mr Aumont. Took his wife's name, has family back in the states. We're visiting."

"Hm."

"Wealthy. Private. Not much exciting in our backgrounds, just a paper-trail of expenditures..." Reaper trails off, shifting in his seat to lean with an elbow propped against the armrest, gaze watching streetlights whizz by, "... Emotionally divorced. Maybe this trip will rekindle something. Or they're just going through the motions," A pause, and then a clarification, "Separate rooms."

Widowmaker continues to stare at her passport for a while longer, and then it gets tucked into an interior coat pocket, "And the airport, the security?" She turns to face Reaper, to peer up under his hood,

his face shifts, becomes whole, he's handsome for moments at a time until the visage settles to a face she should remember better than she does, "I can pull myself together."

"But I'm blue," Widowmaker retorts,

"Yeah," Reaper drawls out his response like he's caught off-guard by her even acknowledging her state, "So you tell them something if they ask. They're usually too polite to ask."

She sighs and turns away, but Reaper catches the pout in the dark reflection on her side of the car. He leans over, slowly encroaching on her space,

"This is part of the play. You make something up," Reaper doesn't give advice, and Gabriel Reyes never did either, it's all just warnings, "Do what you're good at. If they stare, look offended. And look like you're used to it."

Widowmaker closes her eyes briefly, it feels like he is doing all but pressing down on her like there's a boundary line he can comfortably lean on. So fine, she's turning back to face him and they're eye to eye - with her gaze she's calling him a bastard and with her mouth she is saying, "No wonder Mr and Mrs Aumont are on the rocks."

Reaper holds the position, holds the gaze, he lets her silently call him whatever names she wants to, and then he retreats, whisps of smoke leave an after-image of where he was, "Yeah," He drags the word out again.

From there on out, they drive in silence. Emotionally divorced.

At the airport there's a slight delay as the man behind the desk looks at Mrs Aumont's passport, and then back to Mrs Aumont again, double-triple-taking until Mrs Aumont finally mutters, "Skin condition," and the man lets her through.


	5. The Diner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is the Diner.
> 
> There is Reaper sitting across from Widowmaker, bullet holes in his Hawaiian shirt, trying to figure out what the hell went wrong.

Reaper smoulders from across the table. Smoke rises from the holes in his shirt - pink fabric, patterned originally with green and white leaves and now patterned with bullet holes. In his hands is a burger and he doesn't take his death-glare away from Widowmaker as he eats.

She seems to be refusing to eat hers and looks uncomfortable in the booth seat. She's wearing a hoodie that he'd earlier angrily thrown at her and demanded that she put on. Somewhere underneath that was a broken arm tucked close in a hidden sling. The bruise down the side of her face seemed nasty, a strip of swollen purple blotches.

They are in a diner. It was emptied earlier when Reaper first had a sit-down with his and Widowmaker's mark. Reaper had poured coffee for the both of them but winced when he drank his down - his expression somehow more pained than when bullets started squeezing themselves out of his flesh as it knitted back together.

Nobody had decided it was safe enough to poke their heads out into the street yet and Reaper was taking full advantage of that. He figured ten more minutes of this staredown before they should work towards extraction.

Reaper stuffs down another mouthful. Though at this point the mask has very much come off, maybe it is Gabriel Reyes that Widowmaker is cringing at - a chunk of his neck is missing, she can see the food go down for the moment it takes for skin to knit itself back together. He's always shifting like that, but no matter what bits of flesh are missing, she can recognize the scowl.

"Nothing?" Reyes asks. Head tilts. Half-eaten burger lowers.

* * *

The tossed explosive ruptures one leg of the watertower and the other three buckle under the new weight. Widowmaker jumps before the fall, trusting in the meddling Moira had done to her body to land in a perfect three-point-pose. The jeep was making good distance, but Widowmaker takes aim on one knee, scoped in on the tires, she squeezes the trigger--

\--A torrent of water barrels her forward head over heels over head again.

The jeep flips wheel over hood. A high-impact round does that to a vehicle, especially when the popped tire causes the driver to swerve uncontrollably. This was the kind of town that kept its doors shut through the sort of commotion that Reaper and WIdowmaker had kicked up. The kind of town that knew not to get involved - quiet, but only because of who enforced the rule of law around here.

It wasn't the sheriff's department.

Widowmaker struggles to get to her feet. Something felt twisted - she was finally feeling the result of the sickening crunch she'd heard when she first tumbled under the weight of the water. She sees in the new puddles reflection smoke creeping up from behind. The Reaper. He passes over her to the upturned jeep, she can hear a man's voice finally give in to fear - "No-no-no-no!" - and then the echo of a shotgun blast that ends the plea.

The man becomes smoke again for the time it takes to be standing in front of the fallen Widowmaker. He looks ridiculous in the pink shirt, "Get up."

* * *

"I told you to move," Reyes growls. 

Widowmaker continues to watch him. She's uncertain of what to say and despite how relaxed she might look with one leg up on the booth, she knows she is walking on thin ice.

"Why didn't you?" But he was insisting on questioning.

"... I had my target."

"I didn't think you could make that sort of decision," He's angry, but the man is never not.

Widowmaker finds something else in that anger, something beneath it, a reason for the inquiry, "Will this go in your report?"

The question seems to tug Reaper's expression wider, an appropriation of a grin, "No.

Now eat your damn food."


	6. The Coffee They've Had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is the coffee.
> 
> Shit, black, too sweet, too bitter, two people sat opposite each other all over the world. Where-ever the killing sends them.

Nebraska, NUSA.

Reyes picks at Widowmaker's brain, asking about their current mission and the last. Testing her memory. She tells him to knock it off - that's good enough for him. An aging waitress refills their cups and Reyes imagines himself drinking motor oil. Widowmaker imagines the strange medicines that Dr. O'Deorain prepares for her. The diner must have been rebuilt, the pictures on the wall suggest it stood before the omnic crisis and here it stands after. Nothing sits at the centre of that shitstorm and remains in one piece.

Reyes knows - how if it wasn't exploded and rebuilt, it was bit-by-bit replaced.

Widowmaker doesn't hold an opinion on the building, just like she didn't hold an opinion on the man whose skull she perforated hours ago.

"Shit coffee."

"Oui."

* * *

Busan, SK.

Widowmaker is dressed like an off-duty esports booth babe. Neon green team jersey, graffiti-styled sweatpants tucked into high-top sneakers. Reyes is her manager, cutting a sharp figure in a sharper suit with nanites itching at the seams. Widowmaker is tuned into the noise all around them, the plinking of arcade displays, electronic billboards, the chatter of their target as she excitedly talks into her phone.

Widowmaker's lips move in a mimicry of the conversation she's hearing and Reyes reads her lips.

They'll wait an hour after their target has left, they don't need to follow right away.

Reyes pops the lid off his cup - he's not a child, he doesn't need the sippy lid. He'll burn the top of his lip like a real man, thank you very much.

"Better than Nebraska," He growls.

"Ouai."

* * *

Australian Outback.

Plenty of settlements no longer have a name - just a designation on the map assigned based on how fucked the people are. That's how Reyes sold it to Widowmaker anyway. Disguises weren't needed here, the pair could wear their own skin. Hers blue, his a skull. In front of Reyes is a map which Widowmaker reads upside down, tapping where it would be best to post her up - tracing the sightlines she'd have. Lingering when her fingertips reach the spot where Reyes will be working.

They drink from thermoses prepared back at base. Neither trust the coffee here.

* * *

London, UK.

"Feeling nostalgic?" Growled with amusement, there's plenty to be amused by here. Widowmaker's hat pulled low, the large framed shades that hide most of her face, the thin fabric hood under her hat, the popped collar of her heavy coat - in dark navy blue.

"I did good work here," Widowmaker replies, some kind of confirmation. Her mouth twitches, she remembers all sorts of things. Though last time she didn't stop for coffee.

"Yeah," His voice punctuated by the third sugar cube dropped into his mug. Then a forth. Widowmaker watches the process and thinks, '_mon dieu, Reyes, it's already dead.'_ He catches that look - drops another cube into the coffee.

* * *

Talon HQ, [REDACTED].

Reyes is lit from below by the tactical screen set in the table - dramatic blue lighting that throws his shadow to the ceiling, like the true version of himself is watching from above. He's about wrapping up the briefing - orders for Widowmaker, their pilot, and the fourth person in the room who'd rather remain invisible. As though Reyes hadn't authorized her presence, or Widowmaker can't feel the subtle buzz of her optical cloak.

"Dismissed," Not an invitation to leave, an order. It applies to everyone except Widowmaker, who is held in place by a finger telling her to wait. That same finger descends to a junction on the map in front of them. He waits, to be certain that any other listeners have left, and then makes his intent clear, "Claims to be the best coffee in the city."

"Bold claim," Widowmaker replies, severely unamused.

"Five stars on Yelp."

"So was Nebraska," Widowmaker counters.

Reaper nods, "We'll rendezvous at the evac after checking it out."

"Of course. I will add it to the list."


	7. The Coastal Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Varadero.
> 
> There is the string of wealth and resorts, bronzed models and sun-burned investment bankers, and there is the Meliá Marina where Mr and Mrs Aumont's seaplane is approaching.

"Now how can you say I never take you anywhere nice?" Reyes' voice has an odd quality to it - that distant sound one gets when a shift in air-pressure pressed on ears. It's either that, or it's how human he is - healthy (relatively) from an appointment with Dr. O'Deorain. Booster shots. Nanites in his blood. Today his face is whole, there's nothing melting down the back of his throat.

He's trying to make Widowmaker as Mrs Aumont smile - or rather, get her mouth to twitch - because he knows his fashion sense as Mr Aumont gets under her skin. Canvas shorts. Flip flops. A new pink Hawaiian shirt.

Mrs Aumont sits next to him, but lounged over the armrest to watch through the window. Half her face is hidden by large round shades, and then shaded further by a wide-brimmed summer hat. There's already a bikini under her thin kaftan dress because she is ready for sun, ready for beaches, and ready to blend in with the rest of the wives.

The marina sparkles with sunlight on the ocean ripples and shines with the wealth of yachts and fishing boats. They touch down on ocean and drift into port.

Waves. Conversation. That strange sort of audible quality the sun can have sometimes when it's colouring a memory. Heat.

Mr Aumont departs from the craft and offers his hand for Mrs Aumont to follow. They pose, both striking in how they belong in the atmosphere - she under the shadow of her hat, and him already glistening just a little from sweat. They look casual because shades hide how they scan the marina - Widowmaker is looking for potential vantage points, sightlines, and threats. Reaper is looking for--

"Ayy!" Sombra, "Did your plane get delayed, or did you tell the pilot to be fashionably late?" She looks like she'd been settled in a week. Bikini-clad under her swim shorts, hair damp-not-wet from the resort pool not too far from the marina.

Mr and Mrs Aumont exchange a glance.

"Don't worry, I scoped it all out - you two are going to _love_ it here."

* * *

Sombra babbles from the marina to the resort - Mr Aumont moves through it with a grim sort of determination, but then there's a quirk in his body-language when he starts to approach the receptionist, turning to Mrs Aumont before arriving, "Be a dear, won't you, and accompany our friend to the poolside? This won't take a moment."

Mrs Aumont stares at him and he grins back, knowing full well what he's doing.

That's how Mrs Aumont ends up reclined back on one sun-lounger, while on the seat besides her Sombra leans forward going on about how the pool has a wave machine, and an underwater heating system, and how all-inclusive means that they can order pizza after pizza and nobody is going to stop them.

She tries to hide behind her radar-sized shades, but Sombra always finds something to poke at.

"Woah, nice rock."

The gemstone set in the band on Mrs Aumont's ring-finger sparkles in the sun, "I _am_ married," She explains. Exasperated.

"I mean, yeah, _Mrs Aumont_," Sombra replies with all the subtlety of finding a camera to turn and wink at, "But you guys go all out huh."

"No sense in half-performing," Mrs Aumont mutters. Voice low. She does not want this overhead. She's meant to be in character, as much as Sombra seems determined on picking at her play.

"Right-right-right. Did Tal--"

The death glare pierces the shades, freezes Sombra on the spot, and forces the woman to change her words.

"--your family help pay for that rock? Because mine kick up a fuss whenever I ask for something like a new PC rig. Or did hubby go out of pocket?"

The death glare continues, though now it's accompanied by words, "Do I have to explain the quiet game to an adult woman?"

"Yeesh. No fun."

* * *

Mr Aumont takes less than a minute to pick up the room key. He can be all smooth-voiced and polite when he wants to be, and when wanting is to make it easier for the pretty thing behind the reception desk to keep up their smile. It's a shit world, at least someone's faking it.

He's presented with a choice - the glass doors ahead of him that promise Mrs Aumont and their mutual friend, or right towards the elevator and their suite on the floors above.

He doesn't grin - his mouth just widens.

It's a nice suite. The walls are thick, their's a balcony, a kitchenette, a double bed. He'll complain about cold feet later, but for now that's not why he's pressing his hand against the fabric of the sheets - he's looking for something. And he finds it. Two folders, hidden under the sheet that wraps the mattress.

An All You Need To Know on Mr and Mrs Ortuga.

Useful information for a man like Mr Aumont, who might struggle to make small-talk on a double date otherwise.

He drifts to the balcony, slides open and then slides through the screen doors. It's a vacation, really. Sun hot on his knuckles when he grips the balustrade. A little bit of sunshine and murder.


	8. The Hotel Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are drinks.
> 
> There is Mr and Mrs Aumont settling in at the resort. There is Sombra working while the not-married married couple talk at the hotel bar.

One is smoking on the balcony. The other sits sideways at the hotel bar, indulging drinks against doctor's orders. This is their evening to settle in, for Sombra to do the groundwork while Reyes and Widowmaker appear like a perfectly normal wealthy, emotionally divorced but platonically sticking together couple. As Reyes had told her (like she didn't already know) these things can't be rushed. They'll make introductions to the Ortugas the following day, maybe on the water-jet excursion, or the games night hosted by the resort.

Eventually Reyes moves from the balcony, drifting inhumanly until he reaches the suite door and has to pull himself together. He shares an uncomfortable elevator ride with a young concierge.

* * *

Mrs Aumont orders a sparkling water - she can't drink too much and already she's feeling a pleasant hum that Dr. O'Deorain would frown at, 'Your blood moves slowly. So whatever you put in your body moves slowly also,' was the layman's explanation provided to her.

"Not having something stronger?" His voice sounds like he'd just got done gargling gravel and Widowmaker can't help but wonder how long those boosters he had been given were meant to last.

"Pacing myself," Widowmaker answers, watching the man posed as her husband seat himself besides her - opposite her, due to her sideways sitting stance.

"Mnh," Reyes taps the bar. He's been here less than twelve hours and already has a usual order that the bartender knows to bring promptly. A tumbler of something dark drained immediately and requested again, "How is the niece?"

"Far too excitable. But she's done good work - she's done with the itinerary." Widowmaker looks down at the bubbles in her drink - when Mr Aumont's second drink arrives it comes with another for her. Dark. In a tumbler, "Trying to get me drunk?"

"Curious if I can," Reyes' answer comes with a level of scrutiny. A furrowed brow. A frown. He's nosey. He regards her with the attitude of someone rummaging through her purse while not breaking eye-contact.

Maybe an onlooker would consider this playful. Middle-aged husband and wife itching at flirtation, remembering when they did get each other drunk. Widowmaker is thinking about slow blood while Reyes is thinking about experimentation. Curiousity and practicality, he could justify it to himself.

Widowmaker takes the tumbler and drains it with the efficiency of a practiced drinker. She doesn't let it burn her throat.

* * *

Reyes has to support Widowmaker's slight weight on the way back to their suite, despite her insistence of how fine she is - not just fine, fine-tuned, engineered to precision, deadly and dangerous and, "Take off your heels before you break your neck," struggling to walk in heels.

Once they are in the elevator, Reyes does it for her. On one knee, undoing the sandal-lace of the heels she's wearing. Widowmaker scoffs, "Gallant."

"Drunk."

"Now we know."

"Now we know," He looks up at her. Not grinning, just mouth-wide.

The elevator dings and he's risen back to his full height, now with the heels dangling from his index finger, and an arm back around the Widowmaker - the finely tuned, precision engineered international assassin.

* * *

The bed that Reyes practically dumps Widowmaker on is still in disarray, because of course he never fixed it after retrieving the files, and Do Not Disturb sign he'd hung on the handle while he was gone ensured no one would come in to tidy up.

"Don't throw up," Reyes tells her, like that's her choice to make. Widowmaker's response is to just crawl up to the pillow where she can bury her face.

It's all very amusing to him as he loosens his top four buttons, kicks off his flip flops, sits at the end of the bed. He has one hand around one of her ankles like she needs a massage.

There was a thirty second stretch of silence, but Widowmaker still says - either reactively or preemptively - "Shut up."

Reyes' face twists with further amusement. She'd only had four fingers of gin.


	9. The Headache

Widowmaker doesn't often dream. She doesn't even think she sleeps in the way that other people sleep. She's watched Reyes before, sharing a grimy motel on the side of the road to patch each other up before evac. He sleeps face down, drooling, a black mark on the black of night. He dreams, she knows this because he says a name sometimes. Widowmaker sleeps like a corpse and she feels nothing. Her eyes close and a moment later it is daylight. She supposes it is part of her conditioning, less time to think.

So Widowmaker remembers his hand warm around her ankle, then nothing, then sunlight suddenly hot on her face for the moment it takes for Reyes to step before it, casting his large shadow.

"You slept in," He growls, like she had any choice in the matter.

Widowmaker mutters some nonsense sound as she pushes herself up onto her elbows, a vague attempt at sitting upright.

"Took the initiative of hitting the breakfast bar on my own."

"Et how is the coffee?" Widowmaker mumbles, squinting up at him. Her head was pounding.

"It'll fix that," He points at her forehead, then his finger drifts (and leaves a dark, wispy afterimage) towards a tray placed on the bedside table. Coffee.

Widowmaker mumbles her thanks and sits up properly. She's still wearing the black dress from last night, only now one strap slips down from her shoulder and hangs uselessly by her arm.

"Made contact."

"Mm."

"Mr. Ortuga took the last pancake," Reyes relays the information and remembers the momentary rage he felt an hour or so ago.

"Valuable intel."

Reyes grumbles, Widowmaker was daring to be sarcastic after he did a late morning coffee run. He drifts from his position at the sliding glass doors to the bed, "I flirted. Now we have a dinner date for bingo night."

"Bingo night?" Widowmaker seems dubious, but it could just as well be aimed at the coffee - it was certainly a punch to the head. She blinks rapidly, focused on the dark liquid.

"Resort is calling it a throwback," Reyes shrugs, "Gets the couple out of their room. Sombra does her thing. We find their target."

* * *

Widowmaker has to practice a polite smile. It's what Ms Aumont would do - polite, maybe a little coy. A knowing smile for Mrs Ortuga, a hand for Mr Ortuga. He kisses her knuckles and she imagines what it would be like to crack his face with them.

Mr Aumont is a friendly man when he wants to be. His voice still sounds like someone speaking through gravel, but he's so interested in the couple sitting across from him. Mrs Ortuga is beautiful, Mr Ortuga is lucky - and probably rich. They all laugh.

Widowmaker, behind the mask of who she is pretending to be, assumes that everyone at the table knows that it's a farce. Mr Ortuga asks about Mr Aumont's offshore investments and what he really wants to probe about is who Mr Aumont is here to kill. Mrs Ortuga gushes over the hue of Mrs Aumont's skin, even though she does mutter that it was the result of a skin condition.

"'Conditions' always sound so negative," Mrs Ortuga rolls her eyes dramatically, "You look flawless."

Widowmaker imagines snapping the champagne flute at the neck and perforating Mrs Ortuga's throat with it. She could do it quick enough to not give her husband any time to react, Reyes would move first. He'd have her back. He'd smash the man's nose, then wrap him in the tablecloth while he's still seeing stars. She also says, "Thank you," and "My husband here doesn't tell me nearly enough. He could learn something, non?" They always love the accent, Widowmaker leans into it.

Widowmaker is waiting while Reyes seems genuinely into the game. Bingo pen in hand, numbers dotted off a bit of card. There's a minuscule speaker hidden in her ear cuffs, and on the other end there is Sombra sat cross-legged on the Ortuga's hotel room bed lit up blue by the projected screen of Mr. Ortuga's laptop. Widowmaker just needs to hear the words 'Got it' from her.

Then she can make an excuse to leave and do what she came here to do.


End file.
